This, More, Always (3)
by dylannhyland
Summary: December 2012. For the second time in as many days, Sherlock was allowing himself to be led to the bedroom. This time, at least, he wasn't significantly inebriated. John and Sherlock have anal sex for the first time on their first Christmas as partners. Directly after the events of "A Most Human Person" Chapter 1 - probably read that first. Feels and smut.


John and Sherlock have anal sex for the first time on their first Christmas as partners. Directly after the events of "A Most Human Person" Chapter 1 - probably read that first (I know it's not in order, I'm sorry I'm going to fix this whole series soon!). Feels and smut. No angst. Just a decadent Johnlock lovin' oneshot.

For the second time in as many days, Sherlock was allowing himself to be led to the bedroom. This time, at least, he wasn't significantly inebriated.

When John closed the door, he turned to Sherlock but didn't move for a moment. He just looked. And Sherlock was completely disarmed by the softness of his gaze. It was as though John had suddenly let down all walls, all defences, stripped himself of any pretence. Sherlock was an expert at reading people, a master at reading John - and the words that sprang to mind as he was watching John all fell in the general vicinity of _In Love_. Once, he would have rolled his eyes upon reading those words on somebody's face. Now, though, this was different. This was _John._ And Sherlock was sure that his own expression was radiating the very same sentiment.

The moment stretched out for an eternity, and a thousand words unravelled between them, things that they couldn't - wouldn't - say, but didn't need to.

Today had been seemingly ordinary; by anybody else's standards, that was just about how a Christmas day ran. But for Sherlock, it was the first Christmas where he had understood what other people valued in it. He had enjoyed it, enjoyed the company of John and Mrs Hudson, and enjoyed pleasing them with his gifts, and enjoyed receiving theirs. It was frivolous, yes, but he couldn't deny the sense of belonging and comfort he had felt today. He had never sought out such _human_ interactions, such kinship, and yet, here he was. He was _caring._

And Sherlock suspected that for John, this Christmas had been the first after leaving the army where he felt a similar sense of family. That was how the army worked - establish camaraderie between a group of people and they'll perform as a cohesive unit - and that sense of family was what many veterans struggled to live without once they left the armed forces. In past years, Sherlock had been less than sociable at Christmas, and John was often left to spend the day in front of the telly or visiting family to whom he was not particularly close. Today, though, Sherlock knew that they had both found something worth keeping.

They were happier when they were together.

They needed to be close.

It was obvious, and he would be a coward not to acknowledge it.

When John closed the distance between them, it was not to kiss, but to embrace. His arms wrapped around Sherlock's waist, and his head rested on Sherlock's shoulder. Hugs were not something Sherlock had ever been good at, and not something he ever thought the doctor would be particularly fond of. But somehow, here with John in the dark of this bedroom, it felt surprisingly okay.

The last two weeks had been full of unexpected discoveries, and this was just another. First, he had discovered he was capable of love - of course, he had always _cared_ about John, since the day he had killed a man to save Sherlock's life. But love? For so long, love had seemed incompatible with the cold logic he prided himself upon. But this didn't feel like a contradiction. John was the most positive influence in Sherlock's life; they complemented one another and brought out the best in each other in all aspects of being. As a team, they were a force to be reckoned with. And Sherlock wanted it to stay that way, to have John close. The second discovery had been sexual experiences. Never before had he seen the appeal of baring himself to somebody else that way. Again, John broke the rule. Sherlock found himself wanting to share things with John that never before had seemed to be of significance. He enjoyed seeing that aspect of John, too - seeing him let go, seeing him _want Sherlock_ on such a basic, carnal level, despite (or maybe because of?) everything that Sherlock was.

His arms settled around John's shoulders and let himself relax into the warm solidity of his body, feeling John's heartbeat on his own chest. The closeness was comforting, somehow. A reassurance, a mutual understanding. They stood like that for a few minutes, just breathing together.

Again, John was the first to move. His hand slid up to Sherlock's neck and pulled Sherlock's lips down to his own. It started soft and sweet, a gentle dance of lips. Sherlock loved kissing. He could tell John things he couldn't bring himself to say out loud, things he could hardly bear even to think to himself. These emotions were so foreign, so contrary to what he had always been - what _Mycroft_ had trained him to be. So he let his lips speak wordlessly, and he knew that John understood. The heat between them built slowly - a gentle brush of tongue against teeth, fingers curling into the hair at the back of Sherlock's neck, a soft suck on John's lips.

Soon enough though, John was backed up to the wall and pulling at the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, his soft moans sending shivers down Sherlock's spine. When the detective's shirt hung open, John's fingers found Sherlock's nipples and _oh!_ Sherlock shuddered and involuntarily bit into John's bottom lip, which in turn extracted a moan from John, louder now. _Oh, John, more of that._

John's fingers tickled and caressed and explored Sherlock's torso and though John was the one pressed against the wall, Sherlock was entirely at his mercy. Each touch made him shiver or moan or sigh, all these stimuli swirling into a delicious heat that radiated through his body. It was all he could do to suck John's tongue into his own mouth and pull ineffectually at the doctor's shirt. _How do you always do this to me, John?_

"Vous me faites implore choses que je ne savais que je voulais, _s'il te plait, John-"_

It was the French that undid John. He wasn't even sure that Sherlock did it on purpose, and that made it so much hotter. Hearing and feeling those sounds roll off Sherlock's tongue and into his own mouth as they kissed was as much of an aphrodisiac as he'd ever experienced. John didn't understand much French, but he wasn't so hopeless as to miss "please". He moved his lips to Sherlock's neck, and revelled in the detective's moan, the way his head fell back as he worked his way up to his ear lobe. Sherlock's fingers tightened on his back as he pressed his body closer to John's.

 _"John, s'il te plait!"_

John smiled to himself, and whispered into Sherlock's jawline.

"Well, _come on, then."_

He took Sherlock's hips and pushed him gently towards the bed.

"Oh, Jesus, you don't- you don't have to- _oh!"_

Sherlock smirked - or rather, he would've if he could've. He had one lube-slicked finger deep inside John, and John's cock as far down his throat as he could swallow it. He pulled off for a moment and interrupted him.

"The more aroused you are, the less painful and more pleasurable it'll be." He curled his finger just a little, and John cried out as Sherlock found his prostate.

"Oh, _fuck!"_

Sherlock smirked and slid his lips around John's cock again. He felt John push his hair back, just a little, so he could see. _Oh, God, I've always been a show-off._ He moaned and closed his eyes, and slid a second finger into John while swirling his tongue around the head of his cock. _John, make that sound again._ He was quickly finding out that he was far more aroused by sound than sight. Porn had never much interested him, outside of basic sex education - but this? Hearing the way John's voice hitched and gasped and broke under his touch? _Ceci est exraordinare._ He had to repress physical shudders as John moaned his name. _Attendez._ John wasn't ready yet. He continued to slide his fingers inside him, scissoring them a little to open John with minimal discomfort. When John tightened his fingers in Sherlock's hair, Sherlock groaned around his cock and rocked his hips against the bed a little, _anything_ to relieve the tension.

"Oh, God, Sherlock, just take me already," John managed to laugh, seeing how desperate Sherlock was, but it turned into a cry of pleasure when the detective slid a third finger in.

"Pas encore, John."

 _Oh, God, that French again._ Sherlock's voice was all breath, strained with lust, and John was shivering with need. Sherlock had been keeping him strung taut like a wire, just under the surface, for a good five minutes now as he was opening him.

"You, _Sherlock Holmes_ , will be the death of me."

Sherlock just smirked and hummed lowly around his cock, before finally, finally, sliding his fingers out. He pressed one last kiss to John's frenulum, before moving up to kiss John again. It was hot and sweet and Sherlock did something with his tongue that made John's toes curl, and _oh, fuck, Sherlock, please-_ He fisted one hand in Sherlock's curls, just tight enough to pull how he knew Sherlock liked.

 _"Please, Sherlock."_ He pulled back to suck on Sherlock's neck.

"Aves-vous fait -oh-," he seemed to realise he was speaking the wrong language, and frowned to concentrate, "-have you done this before?"

"Yeah, once." He grabbed the lube and squirted some into his hand, before reaching down to slick Sherlock's cock liberally.

"Do you know - _ungh!_ " Sherlock lost his train of thought momentarily as John stroked him, and just thrust into John's hand instead, his head falling onto John's shoulder. "Do you know what you like?" His voice was thick with lust.

"Not really, first time was rubbish and I haven't bothered since," He huffed a laugh, which was choked off by Sherlock's fingers finding his cock.

"Slow, then?" Sherlock's eyes were nearly all pupil, and he held John's face gently. John nodded in agreement.

"Slow."

Sherlock lined himself up and pressed in gently, and the sensation of John's tight, slick heat squeezing around the head of his cock made him _whimper_ \- not a moan, but a broken, whining sound well outside of his usual vocal range. This was so far beyond anything he had experienced before. His head was spinning with the sensations of _John, oh mon Dieu, John!_

"Oh my God, _Sherlock-"_ John's fingers dug hard into his hips, and he stilled. He watched John's face, but he couldn't tell if his expression was pain or ecstasy.

"Not good?" He moved to pull out, but John's grip on his hips tightened and held him in place.

 _"Very_ good." And with those words, John pulled Sherlock down to kiss him again, soft and slow. Sherlock broke the kiss and pulled back a little, watching John's face. He wanted to see what he did to John. The doctor was flushed and panting and pupils blown wide, but the corners of his eyes were crinkled in a small smile. _Ètonnant._ John's breath was shallow and laboured below him, and their hearts beat against one other through their chests. John wanted this, needed this, _was desperate for this_ as much as he was.

And so, so slowly, he pushed in. He could feel John's muscles relaxing and stretching around him, and he couldn't help but groan lowly and squeeze his eyes closed. He could feel his hand shaking where he gripped John's shoulder - his whole body was vibrating. He could feel _everything. John, this is too much, but please, more, I need more._ John was whimpering, but his fingers tangled into Sherlock's hair and pressed into his hip and he drew his legs up higher to allow Sherlock in deeper, as deep as he could go. When he was buried to the hilt, he stopped.

 _"John."_ He didn't dare kiss John for fear that he would lose control, so he just rested their foreheads together, his eyes screwed shut. Every miniscule involuntary movement of John's hips was enough to make him groan. He had never felt so completely connected to another human being before.

"Can I - I need _\- ngh -_ to move. Is it okay?"

In answer, John just pushed his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and pulled on his arse. And the way that Sherlock snapped was _amazing._ He groaned with abandon, loud and broken into John's mouth, and his hips began to move of their own accord. He didn't thrust so much as roll into John, and the movement was gentle but deep and strong, and oh, _God,_ this was different to the last time. The last time John had done this, he was in uni and wanted to try being fucked just for the hell of it. So he got moderately pissed, went to a gay club, and went home with a bloke about double his size. It had hurt, a _lot,_ (even more so in the morning) and the guy hadn't paid any attention to John's pleasure. After that, he'd decided not to bother again. But this? _Jesus, I'll take this forever._ These sensations were so new and unfamiliar and _amazing._ It was hot and slick and the feeling of Sherlock filling him with every roll made his head spin. Sherlock's face was buried in his neck and his curls were tickling John's cheek and he was making little whimpering noises and gripping John's shoulder tight and this was more intimate than _anything_ he'd ever done before, no matter the sex of the person he'd been doing it with.

Sherlock stopped and fell silent very suddenly, his eyes flying open as though he'd realised something. John whined when he drew out, and turned to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Oi!"

"I'm not hitting your prostate." He left the _"obviously"_ implied.

 _Oh, my God._ John's eyes widened and he nearly teared up. This man, this insufferable, obnoxious bloody genius.

This gentle, attentive lover.

 _Make up your bloody mind what you want to be. Or don't, and I'll want it all anyway._

Sherlock rolled John over and pulled his hips up a little, so that he could still lay his body over John's and hold him close. And when he breached John this time and hit his mark, the doctor cried out so loud that Sherlock was sure Mrs Hudson would hear. And that sound, _oh, John!_ He lost control of his hips again, and now he could feel John thrusting back up to meet him, and his hand found John's and gripped it, hard. This was so much more than he was used to, these sensations so intense, he was wired with desperate, _desperate_ need. As though reading his mind, John panted out the words Sherlock needed to hear.

"Faster, _please."_

It was no hardship for Sherlock to oblige. He reached under John's body to take his cock in hand - Sherlock could feel he was right on the edge, he could feel John's body tightening around him, and he wanted nothing more right now than for John to lose control.

"Oh, fuck, Sherlock, _Sherlock-!_ John came with the detective's name on his lips, and that was all Sherlock needed to push him over. He felt John's come coating his hand as his own was spilling into John, and John was groaning and shuddering and squeezing rhythmically around him, _oh mon Dieu, John, John!_ All he knew in those moments were the waves of intense, sweet, hot pleasure that were rocking both their bodies for far longer than any other orgasm he'd yet experienced.

After what felt like an eternity, Sherlock started to come back to his senses. He only realised his face was wet when he saw the tears fall onto John's back. This wasn't like last time, when he had been overcome by emotions and his realisation that he could love - now it was the sheer intensity of the physical sensations he had just experienced that was overwhelming him. He tried to get his breathing under control again, but the sobs kept rattling his frame, and he was making noises he didn't entirely have control over.

"Hey, Sherlock, hey-"

John moved his hand back to push at Sherlock's hip, encouraging him to pull out. John rolled over as soon as he was free so that he could wrap his arms around Sherlock and hold him. He let the detective cling to his chest, his body shuddering with occasional aftershocks. John could sympathise - even with his own wide and comprehensive sexual experience, he was pretty wrung out by the intensity of that orgasm, too. After a pretty much celibate life, it was no wonder that Sherlock's body reacted so strongly the sensations. John held him close and stroked his hair gently, waiting for him to recover. After a while, Sherlock's breathing turned quiet and slow again, and he stopped shivering. They lay there in silence, breathing slowly and holding each other.

"Listen, Sherlock, if that was too much, we don't have to - _mmph-"_ Sherlock pressed his palm to John's lips in an effort to shut him up. It was about all he could manage right now. His body was heavy and relaxed, and his mind was deliciously, blessedly _quiet_. Phrases like _extraordinary_ and _oh my god_ and _hnnghhf_ floated through his head. What he said, was:

"I love you."

Just a quiet three words whispered into John's chest, and not the most poetic or dramatic or profound, but some of the truest he had ever spoken.

"This thing. I want this, and more, and always."

He felt John nod under his hand, and let it drop down to John's shoulder.

John smiled. He had never expected to see Sherlock, with eyes closed and body spent, whispering sweet nothings into his chest. Except - these weren't sweet nothings. This was Sherlock making - as far as he could tell, through the exhaustion-slurred words - a commitment. Sherlock didn't make a lot of those. John thought that perhaps the prospect should have frightened him - _what the hell am I getting myself into? -_ but he signed himself over a long time ago.

Sherlock was right.

This, and more, and always.


End file.
